


Stirrings from the Past: Book One of the Stormcrown Series

by orphan_account



Series: Stormcrown [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: College of Winterhold Questline, Daedric Quests, F/F, Gen, Magical Artifacts, Multi, Skyrim Main Quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 19:05:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Agneta, the young Nord woman proclaimed Ysmir, Stormcrown, and Dovahkiin by the Greybeards, must come into her own to save her homeland from themselves, the world from the tyranny of the Dragons, and herself from her inevitable doom.Alegnor, the youngest Master at the College of Winterhold must defeat Ancano before he destroys the College and find the elusive Dragonborn and aid them in their mission to save the world.Told in two-part perspective.(Sorry about the summary- I am terrible at them. More tags will appear as the story moves along.)





	1. Agneta I: The Return of Alduin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 17th of Last Seed to 22nd of Last Seed, 4E 201.

Agneta awoke in binds, her clothes soiled by the mud and grime . It had been eight days of travelling. A broad-shouldered man wearing Stormcloak armor smiled at her as she awoke.

“You’re finally awake. Not much to see.”

A thin man next to her whispered fervently. “We won’t be seeing much after.. after… I AM NOT GUILTY!”

“Quiet, prisoner!”

_Prisoners?_

Agneta looked around and nearly wet herself. She was in a cart, part of a long train of carts filled with either Imperial soldiers or prisoners such as herself. Her pa and eldest brother went to fight for the legion, while her eldest sister went to fight for the Stormcloaks. She wished that she had followed them to whatever fate had wrought them rather than be in the position she was in now. She looked to her left, seeing a man in matted furs with a thick dirty cloth making him unable to speak. _Ulfric Stormcloak_.

“...and where are you from, sister? I don’t think you said.”

“I… I’m near Stag’s Head.”

“Not far, as I remember, from where we are now. Good. A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home. The name’s Ralof. And you?”

“I said quiet!” the legate shouted. She cracked her whip and hit Ralof in the shoulder. Ralof winced in pain.

“Agneta,” she whispered.

“A pretty name for a pretty girl-”

“-About to become worm food like the rest of us…!”

“SHUT IT!”

Ralof leaned in to talk to Agneta. “You do know where we are?”

‘Helgen? We passed through Haemar’s Pass a day ago.’

“Aye. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Helga, do you know her? And Vilod? I wonder if he’s still making that mead-”

“-With juniper berries.” Agneta finished. Ralof smiled brightly.

“If there had been a different set of circumstances in which we would meet, I would be proud to call you my shield-sister, Agneta of Stag’s Head.”

“I’m no fighter. My sister, and father… well.”

Ralof smiled. “You will see them again, in Sovngarde.”

Agneta didn’t feel any comfort from his words. Three winters ago, perhaps, when she believed Ulfric’s promises as much as she did the tenets of Kynareth, but now all she felt was emptiness, that there wasn’t anyone on any other side of the executioner’s block. This was her last, before she had even begun.

“Halt the carts,” another legate said. “Unload the prisoners.”

The carts stopped in the square of a medium-sized city. Agneta looked around, recognizing the shop on the way in, where her ma would get supplies and food, and where her sister had bought her axe before going to fight for the man bound next to Agneta. A crowd had gathered around the large courtyard of Helgen, at the apex of all trade in the south of Skyrim.

“Here we go,” Ralof said. He grimaced as he was lowered out of the cart.

“When I call your name,” an Imperial officer said, “please come forward.”

He looked down at the first name and was immediately troubled. “Ralof, of Riverwood.”

The officer looked up, sadly, to see Ralof join the others by the block in the center of the town. He sniffed and batted away a tear before reading off the next name.

‘Lokir of Rorikstead.”

“No, you can’t do this! I’m innocent!”

He ran. Five crossbow bolts hit him in the back, but the one that tore through his throat was the one that eventually killed him. Agneta looked away. The young officer tore his gaze away from the gruesome flapping of Lokir’s arms to read the next names on the list.

“Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm.”

“It was an honor to serve you, Jarl Ulfric.” Ralof proclaimed. The captain hit him with her switch, bringing Ralof to his knees.

More names were called: Gunjar of Weynon, Lonnar of Karthwasten, and Carwyn of Morthal among them.

“You,” the officer said to Agneta. “Step forward. Who are you?”

“Agneta, of Stag’s Head.”

The officer scanned the list. “Ma’am, she’s not on here.”

The centurion took a hold of the list. “There is Ana of Stag’s Head. Are you related?”

Agneta smiled. “Yes, she is my sister.”

“Then you will serve her rightful purpose in life for her. To the block with the rest of them.”

“Ma’am-”

“I said next prisoner!”

Agneta bowed her head and went to join Ralof at the block.

Carwyn of Morthal had been chosen to die first. His Talos amulet, carved from mammoth tusk, clattered to the blood soaked ground as it slipped from his neck. Many more Stormcloaks were chosen by lot to meet their swift end, their eyes pointed upwards in a plea to whatever god would hear them in their last moments.

“You,” that young officer said. “the Nordess! Come on. Nice and easy.”

Agneta’s head remained bowed. She sunk to her knees in front of the block, and her head was forced to the side. A statue of Mara looked down on her. Her golden smile seemed hostile from the angle she was at, as if the lady knew she was abandoning everyone whose head was in the basket now and Agneta, whose head would soon join them for no reason other than her being here.

She closed her eyes as the headsman prepared to swing. A loud roar interrupted him, knocking the axe out of his hand. Agneta looked up to see a terrifying, large beast with red eyes and black scales hovering over her.

She woke up sprawled next to the executioner’s burning body. Thick black smoke seemed to pour out of every corner of the city. A strong hand pulled her up and all but dragged her to a nearby tower. She was turned roughly to see Ralof telling her something that was very faint and muffled.

“Wha… what?” Agneta said.

“Are you alright?!” Ralof yelled again.

“Yes, I’m fine…”

Ralof turned to Ulfric. “Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages. We need to move. Now!”

“Come on!”

They moved out of the tower, toward the keep. The dragon flew overhead, bashing its head into the tower and roasting the remaining Stormcloaks alive. Ralof and Agneta ran the fastest towards the door, and entered just as Gunnar expired from an Imperial sword through his chest.

“Let me cut you loose,” Ralof said. He jimmied a dagger between the rope binds on Agneta’s hands.

“Legionaries! I want the escaped prisoners found and executed!”

Ralof quickly hid behind the door, putting his hand over Agneta’s mouth.

“But ma’am, the dragon-”

“To Oblivion with the dragon! Justice will be ca- AUGH!”

Ralof emerged from the shadows and quickly dispatched the captain. As she fell, Ralof grabbed her sword and used both to dance around her two guards. Toying with them. He quickly grew tired of waiting, and delivered killing blows to both of them. Agneta wretched when she saw the two boys fall to the floor with their necks cut open.

“Not a warrior’s heart, then?”

“I do,” Agneta said, wiping her chin. “but not a warrior’s stomach.”

“Come on then, we should be off. Vilod spoke often of a natural cave where they take the prisoners to. I bet it’s down here, somewhere.”

Ralof went down the stairs, the dragon’s roar shaking dust from off the rafters. A cave in blocked the main passage, but a door to the side opened into a chamber. They wandered through the barracks, grabbing stale bread and waterskins as well as a few potions from the room.

They quickly descended into the depths of Helgen Keep, coming upon a corridor filled with webs. A few dead Frostbite spiders were scattered about the room. As they turned to leave, a massive spider descended from the ceiling, screeching at them both before coating Ralof in a blob of venom. Ralof yelled as his armor began to smoke. Agneta, seeing no other alternative, rushed towards the spider as it was rearing up on the downed Ralof. Using the weight of the sword in her hand, she brought down the tip into the side of the spider’s head, killing it.

“Good job, Agneta.” Ralof said. “Help me get this off…”

Agneta and Ralof discarded his melting Stormcloak armor. Ralof winced in pain as the spider venom even now ate into his exposed flesh. Agneta poured a healing potion on it. It fizzed on contact. She discarded the bottle and helped Ralof to his feet.

“Come on, let’s go.”

The two of them rushed through the cave, mumbling about how Frostbite spiders had gotten there. They emerged from the mouth of the cave. Agneta turned, seeing the large black dragon flying off into the distance. Helgen was utterly destroyed, the wooden carcass of its walls alight in smoke and flame.

“I thank you for your help today. It seems we survive yet another day, sister.”

“Is it gone?”

“Aye,” Ralof said. He looked carefully up at the sky, just to make sure. “We should get going. My sister runs the mill in Riverwood. We should tell her about the attack, make sure the village is ready.”

 

By the second day, they encountered three large stones. Ralof tapped the stone bearing a large sword rune. His muscles seemed to broaden ever so slightly as his hand left the obelisk.

“Touch one of the three. Do you have magic?”

Agneta shook her head. “None more than the average. I can heal myself and start a small fire.”

“Strange, that. Seems everyone can do that. Ah well, the other two will suit you just fine.”

“Why not this one?”

“Well, how often are you going to use magic?”

Agneta huffed and touched the stone with the peculiar staff. She felt something opening inside of her, as if she could feel the thrum of the earth beneath her feet and a new-found power running through her veins…

“Stubborn. Let’s hope you use that magic for the right reasons, sister.”

Agneta did not respond, and instead went off on the road by herself.

Ralof caught up to her. “You know, it would seem fate had it that you were at Darkwater Crossing that day. Why is that?”

Agneta shrugged. “Visiting my aunt. Found out she died, and went back. Didn’t expect to get involved in all of _this_.”

“We are all involved, people like you and me.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Ralof looked confused. “The war. Hadvar, Talos preserve him, believes that the Empire is the only way to keep order, even at the cost of the religion of his ancestors. Me, I see a different path. One that involves all true sons and daughters of Skyrim uniting under one banner, as Ysgramor himself accomplished.”

“The Empire’s not our true enemy, the Elves are.”

“The Dominion is too powerful, even for Skyrim. For now. By throwing off the Imperial yoke, we will set the Thalmor and their damnable Justiciars off balance.”

“Let’s say that you’ve agreed to cut down an iron tree that spews poison and kills the local plants. You have a thin-bladed axe. Which is better: to cut it at only one point to where it will fall on top of you, killing you or to cut it away from you and at all angles to weaken it, making it able to fall whichever way you wished?”

“Iron rusts,” Ralof said. “And steel can break through iron.”

“But at what angle? Your axe is thin.”

“At any angle that makes it the most effective then.”

“Let us say that the axe was one that could fell the tree more quickly if you weren’t alone in swinging it. What then?”

“Chop down the tree.”

“You wouldn’t need anyone else to swing it?”

“No. It’s an axe that I couldn’t yet lift, not that I couldn’t lift in any situation. I wouldn’t need anyone else.”

Agneta shrugged. “But with the help of another lumberjack, you would get the job done more quickly, and the tree would spew less poison.”

“There is less glory in reliance.”

Agneta shook her head. “Then the poison will spread no matter what you do.”

They settled into silence. The sun sunk below the horizon as they continued to walk along the road.

 

They walked for a few days, encountering more refugees of the attack.

 

When they had reached Riverwood, Ralof pointed to path off the side of the main road that led around the wood barrier. “My sister’s mill is up this way. Come on.”

Agneta followed him up the road, past the main gate, to a sawmill near the burbling rapids. A woman with straight blond hair and a dress covered in sawdust was operating the crank while a worker, Gerdur’s husband Hod, lowered a thick trunk into the channel. The boards creaked underneath Ralof’s foot as he mounted the platform. The woman looked up.

“By Lady Mara…” she said, getting up. She ran towards Ralof. “Ralof, thank the gods…”

“Agneta, this is my sister Gerdur.” He nodded to Agneta. “Gerdur, this is Agneta, a fellow survivor. Do you have some place where we could talk?”

Gerdur nodded. “This way.”

She shooed her nine-year old son Frodnar out of their two-story house and sat down at the table, locking the front door and opening the back door. Ralof stooped over and entered the house. Agneta sat at a head of the table.

“There was a large group of them that came a day or so ago, did you see them?”

“Yeah, what happened to them?” Agneta said.

“Delphine, the innkeeper, is sheltering most, though she sent some of them on to her cousin at Whitewater Crossing.”

“Poor souls,” Ralof said. He shook his head sadly. “What of your family, Agneta?”

“Most of them are off to war.”

“Which side?”

‘Yes.”

Ralof looked surprised. “Surely someone remains at your homestead.”

Agneta smiled. “Ma.”

“Do you want to go back? I’m sure we can scrounge up enough for the carriage driver to take you back to...”

Ralof scratched his beard.“Stag’s Head, I think.”

Agneta shook her head. “We need to tell the Jarl.”

“No. I’m sure that at least some had family in Whiterun.”

“She’s right, Agneta. You should stay and rest.”

“I want to see the Jarl.”

Ralof and Gerdur shared a private conversation. Ralof sighed. “Fine. We’ll see about getting you a horse. I’m sure Sigurd has one… Why not stay the night? Gerdur?”

“Fine by me. Ralof, if you would-”

“I’ll sleep under the mill a few nights. Don’t worry.”

Gerdur rose to fetch them both some new clothes. Agneta selected some of Hod’s clothes, cinching them tighter with spare bits of twine. She helped Gerdur prepare the dinner.  
At dinner, Ralof regaled them all with the story of how they both escaped, putting particular emphasis on Agneta saving him from the giant spider. Agneta noticed Hod was looking at her particularly strangely.

 

As Agneta got ready for bed, she felt a presence in her room. She turned around and saw Hod.

“Y’know, as a lumberjack, I see a lot of good sized trunks around this town. Yours in particular however… exquisite.”

Agneta laughed, looking back at her bed. Hod smiled ferally. In the dim candlelight, Agneta’s heart raced as he entered her room. She found a dagger in the bedside table, and spun. The steel blade was pointed at Hod’s throat. She felt the energy from earlier thrumming through her.

“Woah, woah, woah! It was a compliment! What are you doing?”

“Depends on what you do.”

“A little girl killing a man in his own home while his wife and son sleep in the next room… what will they say of you?”

“What will they say of a grown man such as yourself getting killed by a _little girl_?”

Agneta pressed the tip into Hod’s neck. She narrowed her eyes, warning him to get closer. Inside her, however, her heart was hammering.

“You don’t mean it. You crave the attention of a strong Nord such as myself, don’t you?”

Agneta’s gaze didn’t falter. Hod’s smile faded. He backed away before slinking off to his bed. Agneta shook all over as she collapsed into her bed. Where had that come from? Not only his advances, but her reaction?

She was deep in thought when sleep caught up to her.

When she awoke, she was on the ground. Before her stretched the entire town of Riverwood burnt to the ground. She walked through the ruins towards one of the gates. She turned and felt something grab her leg. She gasped, seeing an old man in a grey robe clutching at her ankle.

“Dovahkiin, hi kent jakah hin dez… Jakah hin dez. Boh wah mii… Monahven…”

The old man’s grip failed. Agneta heard a roar behind her, seeing the large dragon from Helgen above her. It opened its mouth…

 

Agneta awoke with a start. The steel dagger from last night was next to her, and she was still in the same bed as last night. She put on her shoes and walked downstairs. There, Ralof was cinching a leather sack closed.

“Good morning,” he said. “What kept you?”

“Bad dream.”

“You too?”

Hod had a sour look on his face, and Gerdur looked a bit more stressed than she had been. It seems his little excursion to her room wasn’t lost on Gerdur: her eyes were particularly puffy this morning.

“Here you are,” Gerdur said, handing her the sack. “We found you a horse. Take good care of him.”

Ralof walked her out. He helped her onto the horse and clasped the cloak around her shoulders.

“Talos preserve you. Give this note to the stable hand in Whiterun, Jervar. He’ll see to it that the horse is returned to here.” he said.

“You’re not coming?”

“Oh no, my place lies with our brethren in Eastmarch. Say, why not ride to Windhelm when you can? Ulfric will want to reward you, no doubt. Perhaps he’ll even let you join the cause.”

Agneta smiled. “Of course. Farewell, Ralof.”

The Nord saluted her as Agneta’s horse raced out of the town towards Whiterun.

As she crossed the bridge, she could see many ash-covered people huddling along the roadside as she passed. She bowed her head and continued the journey.

 

By the next day, she had reached Honningbrew Meadery, where yet many more Helgen refugees were gathered, with those who happened to carry coin when the dragon attacked nursing a well-earned bottle of mead.

 

The day after saw Agneta arriving at the Whiterun stables. She gave the note to Ralof’s friend Jervar as he had asked. Jervar nodded and led the horse away. Agneta approached the tall gates of Whiterun with the leather sack across her shoulders, the guards watching her curiously on the way.

A guard stopped her in front of the gates.“Hold. City is closed with the dragon about, official business only.”

“I survived Helgen. I need to find my family. It’s urgent.”

The guard looked at her piteously. “Very well. Go on through.”

The gate swung open. She walked down to the inn towards a large market. There was an old woman selling jewelry, a harried looking Redguard selling fruits and vegetables, and a Bosmer selling meat. She approached the crone.

“Looking for jewelry, my dear?” she said halfheartedly. Her eyes were red, eyelids puffy.

“I’m sorry, no. I’m looking for the Jarl.”

“Oh dear, you’ll be wanting to go to Dragonsreach.” she turned to point to the stairs to the left of her stall. “It’s on the hill there.”

“Thank you, mother.”

The woman smiled sadly and dabbed at her eyes. Agneta walked up the street, through a long row of houses and stalls. She bumped into a Redguard man wearing fine clothes. He cried out far too loudly.

“I’m sorry-”

“This is the Cloud District,” he fumed as he brushed off imaginary dust, “Not whatever sewer you stepped out of!”

He walked away in a huff. Agneta made a rude gesture before continuing to walk.

She approached a courtyard with a dead tree in the center of it. To the side, a priest of Talos was preaching very loudly, defying the seemingly absent Thalmor. In the back, around the side of the tree was the hill that the crone spoke of. A broad set of stairs led up to a large mead hall five floors high. She mounted the stairs and quickly walked towards the top.

When she reached the large iron-stayed doors of Dragonsreach, she was stopped by two guards, their spears crossed over the door.

“State your name and business.”

“I’m Agneta from Stag’s Head. I seek an audience with the Jarl.”  
The guards looked at her and laughed.

“And why,” one of the guards said, looking at her. “The Jarl has no need of any more maids, unless of course you want to _marry_ him.”

“You will let me pass.” Agneta clenched her fists.

“Or what?”

“What’s the commotion?” a voice behind them said. The guards saluted a man in Whiterun livery, bearing a large Imperial gladius. Agneta unclenched her fist.

“Commander,” the guard said, “this girl wants to see the Jarl.”

“Why?” Commander Caius focused on the guard

“I have a message from Gerdur in Riverwood. I have also information about the attack from Helgen.”

“Strange that none have yet come to the city.” Commander Caius looked at her curiously. “Very well. Come with me.”

The guards opened the door. Agneta entered, walking on the woolen carpet. A large fire had been lit, the smoke wafting through the wooden beams into the vent. Ornately carved stone caps guard the thick columns of oak from the braziers that lined the path to the throne. A little boy wearing a red tunic smiled at Agneta as she passed. A cold, unforgiving sneer. Agneta quickly looked away.

Caius and Agneta mounted the stairs that led into a spacious war room. Inside, gathered around a map were three individuals: an Imperial wearing yellow robes, obviously a steward; a Dark Elf with cropped red hair and a fearsome set of light armor, a housecarl perhaps; and a Nord with a simple copper band around his head, holding a pair of glasses to his face as he looked down at the map. The three were in intense conversation.

Caius cleared his throat. The Jarl looked up, taking off his reading glasses. “What?!”

Commander Caius bowed. “My Jarl, this girl claims to have survived Helgen. I would’ve not believed it, but-”

Jarl Balgruuf folded his glasses and put them onto the table. “You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“And?” the Dark Elf said.

“W-well…” Agneta bowed her head and fidgeted with her sleeve.

“Out with it!” Balgruuf yelled. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Please.”

“It was large. Black. And it… spoke to me.”

“Why were you in Helgen, my dear?” the steward asked.

‘I was captured alongside Ulfric Stormcloak in Darkwater Crossing. I was brought to Helgen to be executed.”

“So you’re a Stormcloak?” Caius asked, putting a hand on his hilt. “Sentenced by the Empire to die?”

“No!” Agneta said a little too forcefully.

“We’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“My Jarl, if she is a Stormcloak-”

“General Tullius will have a hard time extracting her from these walls as long as I am Jarl and want to listen to her gods-damned story!”

“ _Are_ you a Stormcloak?” Caius asked.

Balgruuf hit his hand on the table. “Get to the point!”

“I escaped with… a man… and we went to Riverwood. His family sent me on horse to deliver the message.”

“And the dragon?”

“I think it went into the mountains.”

Balgruuf glanced at the map and groaned.

“We should send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

Balgruuf nodded his head. “Make the arrangements with Caius.” Irileth and Caius bowed before leaving the room.

“You’ve done well.” Balgruuf smiled indulgently. “You will rest at the inn while in Whiterun. Proventus will write Hulda a dispensation. Return in the morning, as Farengar, my wizard will want to talk to you about the attack. Go now.”

Agneta curtsied and left. The Jarl’s child’s cold smile followed her. She made her way down to the Bannered Mare, the large inn towards the gates.

As it was still fairly early, only a few truly dedicated patrons were at the tables, including a female warrior in plate, another Nord still carrying his longsword on his back, a bard, a hooded figure surrounded by smoke rings in the far corner away from the door, and a man in a fine black robe sipping a glass of wine. The man sipping the wine glanced at Agneta, but other than that she could not tell if anyone paid any attention to anything beyond their cups. Agneta handed the dumpy woman at the bar the Jarl’s dispensation.

“Saadia will show you to your room.” Hulda said. “Saadia!”

A young Redguard hopped up from a bench and jogged to the counter. Hulda told her again what to do and handed her a bottle of wine. Saadia nodded, but looked at the innkeep curiously when Hulda told her which room to board Agneta in.

“Come on,” Saadia said. She guided Agneta towards the top of the stairs. The man sipping wine smiled triumphantly. Hulda blinked and shook her head. She went back to scrubbing the counter.

Saadia opened the door into what was obviously the largest room in the inn, and was about the same size as Agneta’s home back in Stag’s Head.

“D’you mind if I stay up here? Not much to do downstairs.”

Agneta sat down. “Be my guest.”

Saadia sat down across from her and uncorked the bottle. “Drink?”

Agneta nodded, and Saadia filled her goblet. Agneta drew her gaze away from the woman to take a sip. The wine fell around her like a soft blanket as she took a sip. “So, you’re from Hammerfell then?”

“Oh yeah, how could you tell?” Saadia said sarcastically. “Are you from Skyrim? Or…”

“Or?” Agneta said, offering her the goblet.

“Imperial City,” Saadia breathed. She leaned in closer. “You smell…” Saadia leaned in, deeply inhaling Agneta’s scent. She withdrew and sighed dramatically. “Heavenly.”

Agenta cracked a smile. “Better take a bath then.”

Saadia smirked. “Mind if I join you?”

Agneta was taken aback. “What?” Her heart was racing.

Saadia giggled and bit her lip. Agneta blushed. Saadia rose. She tipped the glass over her blouse, the red liquid staining it. “I seem to have picked up a bit of dirt on my way up here. I would hate to have to clean the whole inn…”

Agneta laughed. “Of course.” She got out of her chair and went with Saadia to behind a room divider. They shared a smile, and then a kiss.

Later that evening, as Saadia slept, Agneta heard hearty laughter rise through the low din of the inn below. She smiled, letting the warm comfort of her companion’s body nestled next to her, and the lull of wine, sex, and the crowd below her that undoubtedly might’ve heard her and Saadia rutting, let her sink into beautiful sleep.

 

She dreamed of a large and resplendent mead hall. There were lutes strumming, bards singing, and above all, drinking. Agneta walked around as the ancient warriors inside clapped her back and topped her ale. As she looked into her glass, she could see a pair of clouded eyes looking back at her.

“Dovahkiin… hi kent bo wah Monahven…”


	2. Alegnor I: The Outcast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From 25th of Last Seed to 27th of Last Seed, 4E 201

At the age of twenty-seven, Alegnor was perhaps the youngest Master that the College of Winterhold had ever known. For a while, it seemed that Winterhold was just the place for a man of his abilities to resettle, perhaps to even put his trying past behind him. Yet beyond the walls of the College, the local Nords wanted little to do with an Elf wizard. He kept his hair long to hide his rather short ears and to seem to be nothing more than to be a strange Breton. So the Nords left him alone. 

Today, he was helping Tolfdir teach a class in armoring spells. He would go around, helping the younger students master Oakflesh while Tolfdir would explain how the spell worked: it was an extension of one’s magical aura, an energy field created by their Magicka. He explained that armor would interfere with the protection Oakflesh provided, but not necessarily hinder it. As more and more students got the spell down, they moved on to review ward spells, technically a Restoration spell but useful in helping one extend raw magical power before focusing it into any of the six schools. 

Alegnor was amazed at the variety of students in the year: there were of course Nords present, as well as a few Breton and even fewer Orsimer. However, there was also a sizeable Altmer showing, one even with the dyed yellow skin of a Thalmor, named Cirdan. Cirdan’s dyed skin came as no surprise, as he was the son of a Justiciar. He had arrived three months before without a scrap of knowledge: odd for an Altmer. Though he made great strides, Alegnor could tell that Cirdan’s peers were hostile towards him, inhibiting his growth as a mage. Alegnor didn’t think him as much as a threat as people might think a man of his past would, and would often help Cirdan if he struggled. The only other who put as much effort into Cirdan was Ancano, though for a far more sinister purpose. 

“Come on, Cirdan, you did it yesterday…” Alegnor said. Cirdan was struggling to focus the ward in front of him. 

“I can’t, Master Alegnor…”

“Feel the Magicka flow through you. You know the spell. I know you can do it…”

Cirdan squinted his eyes shut and raised his hands again.

“Relax, Cirdan.” Alegnor said softly. “Relax…”

The elf’s shoulders sagged as the tension left him. He relaxed his eyelids. Little sparks of green energy coursed from Cirdan’s fingertips. Cirdan opened his eyes and smiled brilliantly as a shield formed in front of him. The green sparks grew, and the shield expanded, knocking everyone off their feet and shattering the student’s wards. As the students rose to their feet, they looked at Cirdan accusingly. 

Alegnor laughed. “Glad you had those shields up, didn’t you? Back to it.”

Tolfdir smiled and continued to aid the other students, bringing attention away from Cirdan. Cirdan left the training area and sat on the bench, looking crestfallen. Alegnor excused himself and went to sit next to him.

“You had it.” Alegnor said. “Eh?”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” Cirdan looked at the floor. “I’m fifteen and can’t even cast a ward…”

“We’ve only been at it for a few weeks.”

“A few months,” Cirdan said gloomily.

“And?” Alegnor said with a hint of amusement. 

Cirdan huffed and crossed his arms.“You don’t understand, Master Alegnor.”

“Don’t I?” Alegnor said. 

“They keep asking me why I came here.”

“And why did you, Cirdan?”

“You know why.”   
Alegnor nodded. “Your father isn’t here.”

“Ancano is. He served under my father during the Great War.”

“Don’t tar Ancano with the same brush, Cirdan.”

“You don’t even bloody like him,” Cirdan said.

“True, but that’s our little secret.”

“I’ve never had a secret of my own.” Cirdan smiled, if for a moment. “Not much of a secret.”

“No, but it’ll do.” Alegnor shifted. “And, you know what? I don’t think he much cares for me either.”

“That’s no secret at all!” Cirdan exclaimed. Alegnor laughed, and Cirdan joined in with him.

“So what do you say? Do you want to give it another go?”

Cirdan nodded. He joined the others on the floor, looking back to see Alegnor smiling encouragingly. As Cirdan produced shields of increasing magnitude, Alegnor’s smile faded. A familiar smell, that of Skyrim’s plentiful cedar trees on a warm winter fire, filled his nostrils. Alegnor turned to see Tolfdir sitting next to him.

“Are you worried, that if you get close to the boy that he might ask?”

Alegnor made no outward gesture. “I worry about the boy’s future, more than anything.”

“Shouldn’t you worry of Ancano?”

“Always.”

“You should tread carefully, son. A Thalmor agent isn’t to be crossed lightly.”

“Wouldn’t we know it,” Alegnor mumbled. Tolfdir smiled softly.

“Are you worried that he’ll find out about you?”

“I think for once I shall follow your lead, rather than ask for you to follow mine.”

“Shocking.”

Tolfdir laughed and clapped Alegnor on the shoulder. “Come on then, my friend. We have students to teach.”

 

Alegnor returned to his chambers late in the evening, his feet tired and his head aching from the endless drills and endless questions. Tolfdir’s little chat about Cirdan the day before made Alegnor uneasy. If Tolfdir was against Cirdan, how could the boy know any other path than resentment? Clearly Alegnor was the only one standing between this broken little elf and Ancano’s brainwashing. Alegnor closed his door and took off his teaching robe, enchanted to absorb all but the most powerful magics while within the College’s walls. As he did so, he felt the magicka underneath his skin release like static. 

He had been on edge for as long as Cirdan had been here. He was eager to prove himself as a worthy Master to the College’s council, but he often felt that it would bring more trouble than it was worth, in the form of a tall, piss-yellow Thalmor bat with as large an ego as his ears, or indeed his ears with the mountains of jewels and gold he placed on them to make them rise above his own head in the purest form of Altmer snobbery. 

Alegnor shook out his own ginger locks, the only connection he had to his father. He brought his hands down into the running water, drying off the day’s work as was custom in his father’s land. He sighed, the tiredness settling into his bones. There was a knock on his door. He quickly waved his hand over the running water, making it dry up, before exiting the chamber and entering his office to the side. Onmund, a student, peeked inside his chamber door.

“Might I come in, Master?”

“This is most irregular,” Alegnor said. He sat down in his chair and waved his hand, the other chair pulling itself out for Onmund. The Nord quickly shut the door.

“What might I help you with, Onmund?”

Onmund swallowed a lump in his throat as he sat down. “It’s about Cirdan, sir.”

“Is it?” Alegnor said. He folded his hands on his desk. 

“Yes, Master. It’s just… well, the other students are concerned about-”

“Tell me, Onmund, as a Nord, was it easy for you to come to study at the College?”

“No, sir, it’s not like that. You have to understand-”

“I understand perfectly well, Onmund.”

“I thought you would understand. Ancano-”

“ _ Prefect _ Ancano, Onmund. And no, I don’t understand why you think the way you do about Cirdan, or indeed why any of you do. But you did not answer my question: was it easy for you to join the College?’

“It’s what I’ve always wanted, sir. To be a mage. Not to be a hunter or a farmer.”

“Your parents then, they didn’t want you to be a mage?”

“Oh no, sir. But I don’t see what that has to do with Cirdan, sir.”

“Have you ever considered that his parents might have pushed for him to be on a different path?”

“But, he’s an… well, you know…”

“An Altmer? Certainly. If we all lived up to expectations and normality, you would not be here.”

There was a long silence. Onmund looked ashamed.

“Do you feel threatened by me, or Master Faralda, Nirya even, because we are Altmer?”

“N-no, sir.”

Alegnor looked at Onmund. “Cirdan is your age, and is as much as a Thalmor agent as I am. Do you agree?”

‘Yes, Master Alegnor.”

“And I trust you won’t think of it again?”

“No, sir.”

“And I hope you will convince others to do the same?”

“As best I can, sir.”

“Off you go, Onmund.”

Onmund got up from his chair and bowed to Alegnor, leaving quietly. Alegnor sighed and shook his head. He hardly looked the part of Altmer. Most Altmer had long ears, blond hair, and pearly white skin, at least until some dyed them with yellow dye. Alegnor however, had fairly short ears, ginger hair, yet bore the pearly white skin. He twiddled his long fingers in worry. 

He kept his ears hidden not only for the Nords’ sake, after all. 

 

In the morning, the College bells rang for a new day. Alegnor was already dressed and awake. He had been summoned to Sergius Turrianus’workspace in the dungeons underneath the College. On the opposite side of the dungeon lay Master Heedul’s spacious Alchemy labs, helped by her Imperial apprentice Avicenna Veno. As he entered, a thick black cloud of smoke emitted from the runes around the door. Sergius looked up.

“Good morning. Lorg, fetch us some tea.”

The spindly Orsimer, Lorg gro-Germ, Turrianius’ apprentice, awoke from his sleep and quickly dashed for the odd little tea kettle.

“Tea, Lorg?”

“Thank you.” Lorg said gruffly. He accepted Alegnor’s mug, and went to fetch another.

“So, what have you for me?”

“My little project…”

“Which one?”

“This one,” Turrianus said. He withdrew a cylinder, possibly fashioned from a Dwemer piston, with a crude endcap on one end, and a soul gem wedged in its holding in another.

“What on Nirn is  _ that _ ?”

“This, my friend, is a prototype for a new kind of weapon.”

“I didn’t think you were much interested in weaponry.”

“I’m not!” Turrianus said sourly. “But I figure that if the Nords can have their enchanted weapons, I can.”

“So… what does it do?”

“Simple!” Turrianus exclaimed. “Gane found a schematic for some sort of etching device in some Dwemer ruin on the High Rock border.”

“Etching device?”

“Well you don’t think that they simply hammered out all those clean edges and straight halls, did you?”

“I suppose not.”

‘Well, the original design was originally much larger than this, as an attachment for an automaton. I simply shrunk it down, reorganized it-”

“What’s the soul gem for?”

“-I’m getting to that…” Turrianius said. “-and put this crystal at the end of it. In the original design, a piece of malachite refracted sunlight from a mirror system, meaning it would only work in direct sunlight. But, I thought, why not give it its own energy source? So I replaced the malachite with a soul gem and used runes as an activator switch.”

“Is that it?”

“Oh do keep up,” Turrianius said. “Not only now was it much more powerful than simple refracted sunlight, but it was powered by Magicka no less, at least for the initial activation and deactivation stages.”

“Is it a continuous beam?”

“No. The device regulates the amount of power within itself, meaning that it is at a set length.”

“Does it work?”

“In theory.”

“ _ In theory?! _ ”

“Well it’s not like I’m going to bloody test it in a school, am I?”

“So what, you want me to test it?”

“Aye!” Turrianius said. “I knew you’d do it!”

“Why me, though?”

“Why not?” Turrianius shrugged. “Tolfdir  _ adores  _ you.”

“It isn’t Tolfdir I’m worried about.” Alegnor said. “Suppose Ancano gets his hands on it.”

“He can’t. Only I know the rune sequences. If anyone tried to reverse engineer it, they would blow up themselves and their entire workroom. Tell you what, if you do test it, I’ll let you come up with the final design. Who knows, maybe I’ll make more of them, maybe not.”

He handed the thick tube to Alegnor and beckoned him to go out to the courtyard. Alegnor’s long fingers could barely grasp it gracefully, yet he did the best he could. He closed his eyes, bringing the handle away from his face, towards the ground. His right knee was bent, both legs at opposite angles. His left hand lay on the side of his torso. He sent a tendril of Magicka through his hand, and nearly broke form to see a white beam of light coursing out of the thick hunk of Dwarven metal. He swung it upwards, the blade making a satisfying whoosh as it melted the snow in the air. He swept his foot, rotated himself, and swung outwards. He danced with Turrianius’ strange contraption, and his dance didn’t go unnoticed. 

As he swung and parried, dodged and went through the motions of swordplay (adjusted slightly for the change of weight), there was a small crowd gathering in the courtyard, watching his moves. As he turned for what would be the last time, he saw Ancano’s beady yellow eyes staring him down. Alegnor paused for a moment, looking at the Thalmor looking at him and the device between his fingers. Alegnor quickly assumed a different stance, a different form. One he learned from the local texts. He swung the device around in a circle parallel to his side before lunging, backing up, swinging, all in a line, then a box, then a diamond until it took on a dance of its own. When he felt a sweat working up, he quickly shut off the device and put it into his robe pocket. He bowed to the audience that had gathered before marching back through the doors, past the gobsmacked Thalmor prefect. 

“I didn’t know Master Alegnor could do that,” Cirdan said, looking at Tolfdir for confirmation.

Tolfdir simply shrugged and chuckled, before yelling at the apprentices and masters alike to go to breakfast in the main hall. 

Breakfast at the College wasn’t a required affair, nothing was, but many went to get one-on-one time with usually reclusive Masters, and to generally socialize on the sprawling cushions usually reserved for practice. It was also a time for the Archmage to make announcements, which he usually never did. Savos Aren sat in the back of the Hall of the Elements, with Mirabelle Ervine on his right hand side. Ancano was eating breakfast in his chambers, as he most often did. Of course, no one missed the snobbish column of pisswater, least of all Alegnor. 

Floating trays of lamb potage and apple crumble went around the room, as well as three flagons of watered wine, went around the room as the students and teachers ate. Alegnor took to looking around, trying to see if Cirdan had a group. As he feared, he was eating alone. 

“Do not coddle him, he’s not your son.” Drevis said. Alegnor jumped in surprise.

“I’m not coddling him…”

“Truly?” Drevis said. 

“I don’t want him to be alone.”

“Do you not remember how you were when you arrived?”

“That was different.”

“It is odd, what you are doing for him, sera.”

“Why does everyone think that?”

“Because it is true!”

Savos Aren rose from his cushion with a small letter. The plates of food and drink zipped towards the back of the room. The gates to the Hall of the Elements closed shut, signalling that there was an announcement.

“Good morning, professors and students. Yesterday evening, I received a piece of mail from Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath’s messenger. Having read it, I thought it prudent to read it to you.”

Savos opened the letter. Ervine took the envelope. He took out his scissor-glasses and held them in front of his eyes as he read.

“Fellow citizens of Skyrim,” the Archmage read. “This message comes in dire times. Helgen, between the border of Whiterun, my own hold, and the Cyrodiil border, was burned to the ground by an unknown force on the seventeenth day of Last Seed, year two-hundred-one of the Fourth Age. Though the few survivors that remain that survived the attack and were brought before me claim that a dragon was responsible for the destruction of the city-”

A steady murmur rose in the chamber. Alegnor scanned the room. Most of the Nords were either particularly pensive, shocked, or extremely afraid. He looked to Onmund, who he knew grew up in the city. The boy was looking down at his feet, picking the tassels of the cushion. 

Savos cleared his throat, bringing attention back to him. “-I, Jarl Siddgeir, can assure you that no such beast has or ever will exist. Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, who was captured along the Cyrodiil border, has according to Imperial reports, returned to Windhelm and continues to evade Imperial capture. As my court wizard, as well as my colleagues across the hold work to solve this mystery, I ask for your prayers for the dead and for the hope of justice for those lives lost. I remain, Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath Hold.”

Ervine rose from her cushion. “Breakfast is over. Return to your dormitories, students. Masters and Junior Masters, expect the call.”

The crowd dispersed shortly after that. Alegnor stayed behind to help Tolfdir stack the cushions. As the last of the initiates left the hall, Alegnor pulled Tolfdir aside. 

“What do you think? Was it a dragon?” Alegnor whispered to him. 

“What I think and what I know are two different things,” Tolfdir said. 

“What do you know then?”

“I know that the Augur murmurs to me of a Scroll.” Tolfdir said. “He says to find  _ Septimus _ , of all people.”

“Signus?”

“Yes.”

Alegnor shook his head. “The man ate horkers and had about the same level of mental fortitude as one. Or he does, if he hasn’t frozen yet.”

“Make no mistake,” Tolfdir said,“Septimus was a bright man once. Bright, but utterly mad.”

“I suppose the mad won out in him. Suppose Hermaeus Mora and Sheogorath battered his soul around between them, like a game of Argonian squash.”

“I tend not to think about the whims of any god, much less of the Daedric princes. I focus on the now and the past, but never the future. My patron will guide me through whatever task.”

“Though by law you can’t mention his name.”

Tolfdir gave him a look. “I suggest we return to our quarters. Take that ingenious device back to Turrianius.”

Alegnor bowed before returning to Turrianius’ workshop, promising to come up with a final design. Soon after Alegnor returned to his chambers, the bell sounded an unheard-of peal: the Council had been summoned. He quickly walked back to the Hall of the Elements and ascended the steps. As he did so, Urag gro Shub, with a pile of books in his arms, sloughed off a few of the heavier ones into Alegnor’s arms as he passed. The old Orc gave him a warning to him to not to even breathe funny on his books before he broke out in gravelly laughter. As Alegnor moved up to the top of the tower, Mirabelle closed her book and moved to help him. Ervine was the former destruction master, chosen instead of Faralda to succeed the previous Master Wizard. As it was, they did keep their rivalry professional yet everyone knew Faralda felt scorned and wanted her job. 

The senior mages and masters entered a large chamber off the side of the Archmage’s Quarters. The Dunmer Aren had set up the council chamber as a condensing of his native Morrowind culture, though Tolfdir and Urag were sure he had never stepped foot on anywhere farther east than Windhelm. Still though, the catalogued segmented armors and Ashlander pottery, combined with the non-native plants of creeper vines and crimson nirnroot, transported the council from the dim, bleak world outside of the doors to a faraway place.

Alegnor placed Urag’s books gingerly at his usual spot before sitting between Gestor and Nirya, who was unwisely placed next to Faralda. The muted robes of the Nords, coupled with the Thalmor black and gold that Ancano wore, clashed heavily with the brightly colored robes of the senior apprentices and the exotic plants within the room. 

“I call this meeting to order,” Savos said. He tapped the Archmage’s Rod on the Great Seal of the College, which was behind his chair at the table, and promptly sat down.

“The rumor you heard, no doubt, you wonder if it is fact or fiction. As you know, the College has of late taken no side in the Civil War, but if Ulfric Stormcloak has procured a dragon-”

“Preposterous,” Urag said. “He is a half baked Greybeard, and a mortal to boot. He could never offer a dragon what it desires.”

“Land, gold…” Faralda said. “What else?”

“An endless supply of corpses,” Alegnor added. 

“If you are suggesting that we break our vow of neutrality over a rumor formed from half-truths and conjecture...” Urag said. 

“I’m not suggesting that at all,” Savos said. “I would never change the policies of the college that would potentially put students and faculty at risk. I was merely mentioning that if he or anyone else possessed a dragon, that we would be in danger. While it has been made abundantly clear by our Chief Librarian that Stormcloak would be fool to try and parley with dragons, perhaps another could.”

“What are you suggesting?” Turrianus asked.

“I think, if I may interrupt…” Tolfdir asked, looking up from his place mat carefully.

“Why not?” Ervine said. “Most everyone else has already.”

“I think Savos refers to the Prophecy of the World-Eater, or more specifically the Prophecy of Dovahkiin.” Tolfdir paused, leaning forward. Once he saw that he wouldn’t be interrupted, he continued. “The World-Eater in Nordic legend is Alduin, a fearsome dragon said to herald the end times. Simply, once the Dragonborn is born- or reaches their majority, depending on the legend- they will slay Alduin and end the tyranny of dragons once and for all.”

Urag stroked his beard, nodding in agreement. “If dragons have returned, I suppose that it  _ would  _ be reasonable for their also to be a Dragonborn. If the prophecy is true.”

“But why would they control dragons? Isn’t the nature of the Dovahkiin set toward the destruction of dragons, rather than to aid them?”

“From a certain point of view, yes.” Urag said. “A Dragon-born is said to have the blood of Akatosh running through their veins as all dragons do. So technically they are half-dragon. Most Dragonborns of legend have slain dragons to bolster their connection to the dragon words of power through dragon souls. There’s nothing to say that they won’t go against their calling, however.”

“So will we move to locate the Dragonborn and help them on their way?”

“The Greybeards shall do that. If the Dragonborn comes to us, we will of course aid them.”

_ The Greybeards are even worse at handholding than the College can be, _ Alegnor thought. 

“Perhaps we should study them then?” Turrianus said. “If not how to defeat them or aid the Dragonborn in doing so, if there even is a Dragonborn.”

“Master Ervine, a question to the chair?” Gestor asked. 

Gestor, the conjuration master, was an apprentice of Falion who was one of Savos’ brightest when  _ he  _ was the conjuration master. He was one of the youngest of the masters, after Marence and Gane. Alegnor was still the youngest, as the junior master of alteration. 

“Will you take a question, Archmage?”

Savos nodded. Mirabelle motioned for Gestor to proceed. 

“Pardon my incivility, but perhaps we should buck up and try and take a more active role in curbing these dragons, rather than just twiddling our thumbs and waiting for it all to be over?”

“Yes!” Urag shouted in agreement. “I move we form an exploratory mission to locate more information on these dragons: their resurrection, movements, and how to defeat them and help others to manage this growing threat.” Urag said, putting his ring against the table. His place at the table glowed bright blue. 

“All in favor?” asked Aren.

All at the table, except for Colette, Turrianus, and Aren himself placed their rings on the table. Aren’s red eyes widened in shock as Master Ervine put her own ring on the table with not even a measure of hesitation at going against the Arch-Mage’s vote.

“Motion passes. Who will lead this mission?”

“I will,” Urag rose and said. “My knowledge of lore and history will be of great importance to any investigation of these legendary creatures.”

Aren nodded. Ervine recorded his name on the ballot. Nirya, perhaps to one-up Faralda, also nominated herself. Ervine recorded her name on the ballot after a brief exchange of her qualifications. 

Tolfdir rose. “I nominate Master Alegnor to the position.”

“What?!” Alegnor said, his gaze whipping up at Tolfdir.

“He is an expert of relics, combative and defensive magic. And if the display in the courtyard is any indication, of martial arts as well. I have no doubt that he will make a fine leader at the College when his time comes. My faith in his abilities, as you all know, is absolute.”

“A glowing recommendation,” Aren said. “But surely-”

“He has seen much already,” Tolfdir said quickly. “And I believe his talents lay elsewhere, for the time being.”

“Very well… if anyone else?... No?”

No one else gave nominations. 

“Then I call for a vote. All in favor of Urag out of the three, please stand.”

Savos, Ervine, and a few junior masters rose. 

“All in favor of Alegnor out of the three, please stand.”

Most of the young junior masters rose, as did the lion’s share of the masters. Alegnor felt giddy. 

“All in favor of Nirya out of the three, please stand.”

Only Nirya, Faralda, and Walks on Nails stood. 

“Very well. I am sorry to say, Nirya, but you did not make it to the second round.”

“It’s completely unfair!” she exclaimed, crossing her arms. 

“Now then, the second round. All in favor of Alegnor, please stand.”

Nine out of seventeen voting members stood. Alegnor’s eyes widened.

Aren smiled. “How quaint. Very well. Alegnor, do you accept the position?”

This was his chance. Alegnor’s shock faded. He smiled uneasily. “Yes.”

“I expect an itinerary of your journey, as well as the college members to accompany you by Sundas next. There can be no delay, after all.”

As Siddgeir’s message was the main topic of debate, there were repeated attempts by Ancano to dissuade them from engaging dragons, as they were solely Thalmor business to deal with. His dissuasions went unheard, as most were eager. 

 

Alegnor drew up a list of places and attempted to justify going there in his head. On the list was: High Hrothgar, because if anyone knew anything about the Dragonborn, it would be them; Dawnstar, where the alumna mage residing there has given repeated reports of bad dreams amongst the city folk; and Markarth Hold, to scour for the Blades temple near Karthspire that only a Dragonborn could unlock. Surely then the remaining Blades, if there were any, would flock there. It made sense, after all. Under the cloak of increased Talos oppression, they would all but sneak right past the border patrols compared to what would happen in other regions of Tamriel. Alegnor sighed. Much of his itinerary relied on the Dragonborn’s existence and their being in Skyrim, not to mention a certain amount of foolhardiness on their part to even consider fulfilling their destiny, one that would only lead to death.

Perhaps it was best if he left it alone. 

And do what? Write papers on papers on resource material long gone? Help Master Heedul and Veno rehash a thousand year old potion recipe in a dark dungeon? He clasped the pendant underneath his robes and sighed. He raised it up into the light, a silver locket with a peridot sun with eight points catching the candlelight. He opened the locket. With his long nails he carefully opened the green glass window and took out the lock of silvery white hair. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the silver, brushing his long nose against the softness. It smelled faintly of lavender, of distant shores long gone. A single tear fell to the parchment as Alegnor held the lock against his cheek. Alegnor opened his eyes, placed the lock back behind the glass cover, and clicked the locket shut. 

“Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome and appreciated!


End file.
